John Watson, Fortune Teller
by ssaharadesert
Summary: It was just a normal day in the flat at 221B Baker Street. But when Sherlock is involved, nothing is that way for long. Injured!Sherlock, no slash. Rating may change later on.


**Hi, guys! I haven't posted much Sherlock lately, but here's a little something something. :) Lots more to say down below, but enjoy this chapter first! **

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm bored."

"Hm, what did you say?"

"Bored, John, bored! I'm bored!" Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up from his relaxed position on the coach.

I raised my eyebrows, but didn't look up from the newspaper. I flipped the page. Sherlock watched for a moment, before jumping to his feet.

"I need it, John!"

"Need what?" I was hardly paying attention to my flat mate, well used to his antics.

"Drugs, John! I need my drugs!" Sherlock said with his usual intensity.

"Sherlock," I said, finally looking up from my papers, "No, you don't. Relax. Look on the internet for something interesting."

"Internet is boring."

"Hungry?"

"Dull."

"That new book?"

"Ugh, John, I need drugs!"

I sighed, and set the paper aside, "Fine. If you can find them, you can have them."

"Really?"

"Really." I sat back, and watched, amused, at the utter destruction of the flat. Sherlock pounced from one end of the house to the other, and back again, spending only a few seconds looking it each spot. He muttered and paced while he worked, trying to deduce where I might have put them. And the spot was entirely ingenious; I was proud of my stroke of brilliance.

When he started tearing up the bookcase, looking for hollowed out books, I went to get some tea. When I returned, he was climbing up the bookcase, still searching with determination. I smiled; my ploy had worked, and he was completely distracted from his boredom.

I was still leaning against the doorframe between the kitchen and sitting room when I saw it happen. Sherlock, who was standing on the second level of the bookcase, stepped up one more shelf to try to see on top of it, when the shelf slipped out beneath his foot. He weight suddenly pulled on his arms, which brought the whole thing down on top of him.

I choked on my tea, dropping the cup in shock. The whole thing happened so quickly, I had to blink to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," I said, dropping down beside the bookcase, "Can you hear me?" The bookcase shifted slightly, and I pulled at it. Between the two of us, we got it up high enough for him to squirm out.

I sat back, setting the heavy unit back down. He lay on the ground for a moment while we both caught our breath, before hopping to his feet lithely, and searching through the wreckage.

"Lose something?" I asked dryly.

"I know they're here," He muttered.

"Oh, honestly, Sherlock?" I said, losing patience, "You just had a bookcase collapse on you, and all you want are drugs still?"

"Of course."

I sighed. I ran a doctor's eye over him, and saw that he was moving just fine, no pain or extreme soreness. At least he wasn't hurt.

But I figured out that I was wrong a few hours later. I had been watching telly when he wandered into the sitting room. He hadn't found the drugs, I noted smugly, but was concerned when I noticed how carefully he was moving. He was watching each of his movements like they were painful.

"Are you feeling okay?" I asked, but before he could answer, or more likely brush off my concerns, a knock sounded at our front door.

I got to my feet, knowing that I would have to be me to get it. Living with Sherlock did not allow for laziness, something I appreciated, since it helped me hold on to the soldier in me.

"Greg!" I said, pleasantly surprised. Lestrade could only have one thing, and that meant that Sherlock's complaining, and longing for drugs, was over momentarily. Unfortunately, it also meant my quiet evening was over.

"Good evening, John," Lestrade said, stepping into the room. I went to make him a cup of tea, and I heard Sherlock say something in his baritone.

I balanced three cups of tea, and passed them out accordingly. Lestrade was here so often, I had memorized his favorite way of having tea the same way I knew Sherlock liked sugar and a dash of milk in his.

"What is it this time, Greg?" I asked, "Murder? Arson? Robbery?"

"I'm actually not quite sure. I was hoping you could come with me to the office, and check it out."

"Actually, I don't…" I said, looking to Sherlock, who was still stretched out on the couch, in a position that obviously made him feel less pain. Tromping all over London would not help whatever injury he was attempting to hide now.

"Oh, come off it, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking very much like jumping to his feet, but deciding that it would be too much effort.

"Sherlock," I sighed, "If you want to go kill yourself, go ahead. Don't-"

"You should come to look to, John," Lestrade interrupted me quickly, assuming that I was about to say 'Don't count me in', which I had.

I didn't want to go. I didn't want to be there when Sherlock inevitably pissed everyone off. I didn't want to be there when the murderer inescapably appeared and did one of three things: 1.) Start a great chase scene, 2.) Injured one of us or 3.) kidnapped Sherlock in a hostage attempt at freedom.

I didn't want to be there for any of it.

Lestrade obviously noticed. Sherlock, as always, was more oblivious. He was just laying on his back, hands steepled on his face as he thought.

"Doctor Watson," Lestrade stated, "I…wish we didn't need you. You obviously need a day off." 'From being with Sherlock the Sociopath' went unspoken.

Sherlock remained quiet. I realized that he didn't even seem to hear us talking; he was in his 'mind palace'.

"I do," I agreed, "But I…well, I certainly didn't know what partnering with Sherlock would mean when I signed up, but I do now, and I accept it. I can handle another case today."

"Are you sure? I can probably take care of him for one night." Lestrade said.

I chuckled, "You'd think we were talking about a morbidly sick infant, not a man sitting two feet from us."

Lestrade laughed also, but Sherlock didn't move a muscle, except where his eyes were flickering quickly underneath his eyelids, navigating his mind palace.

"I'll come," I said, standing and taking Lestrade's tea from him. I returned them to the kitchen, and when I came back, Sherlock was already standing, shrugging on his coat. Ah, I had wanted to see him get up to see if he was still stiff and sore. From his movements, I would say he had much more to concern himself with, and wasn't aware of his body at all.

The three of us hurried outside. We were waiting for a cab to come by, when Lestrade's mobile went off. He grunted as the bright light shone in his eyes, which quickly turned to a groan.

"What?" I said, while Sherlock hailed down the cab.

"The case will have to wait." Lestrade said, "We have an armed suspect running around the city now."

"Excellent!" Sherlock perked up, "Where?"

"Not too far-hey, watch it!" Lestrade exclaimed as a figure sprinting for their life nearly knocked him over.

"Greg!" We all turned to Donovan as she appeared, panting, out of nowhere.

Instantaneously, as soon as his eyes alighted on Donovan, Sherlock turned and began chasing the figure. I rolled my eyes, and followed him, Lestrade and Donovan not too far behind.

Sherlock got quite a bit ahead with his long legs. I cursed him. What was he to do if he got hurt while I was so far back? So far, one of my three predictions has come true. I prayed the other two wouldn't.

"Sherlock!" I yelled, "Sherlock!"

"Hurry up!" I heard faintly as they turned the corner. I pushed myself harder.

"Fire escape!" Lestrade yelled from behind me, "They're going up the fire escape!" I grabbed the railing on used my momentum to swing around and begin climbing up the stairs. I figured Donovan wouldn't be able to make it, and I wasn't sure how close behind me Lestrade was.

A million stairs later, and I could hear the sounds of a struggle. Damn Sherlock, he couldn't even wait for me. Lestrade and I arrived at the roof.

Sherlock ducked under one of the punches, delivering one of his own to the stomach. The mans eyes bugged, and he growled in rage.

A vicious backhand sent Sherlock flying back into the fire escape, near us.

"Stop, or I shoot!" The man said clearly, leveling a gun at Sherlock, who just scowled. Somehow, being held at gunpoint doesn't interest him in the slightest. I both hated and….well, hated that. Maybe a bit of admiration was mixed in there.

"Okay, okay, we stopped, we're not moving." I said carefully, holding my hands up in the universal sign of surrender. Greg did the same beside me. Bless Donovan, she was wise enough to stay out of sight and hopefully call for backup.

"What do you want?" Greg asked calmly. Sherlock made to get to his feet by balancing on the fire escape railing, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw him wince in pain and stay sitting on the edge.

I turned my full attention back to the fugitive.

Just in time for the second of my predictions to come true.

Damn, sometimes I hated being right.

**Hi! Several things: **

**One.) I have not written anymore of this story yet. Two things have to happen before I do: People have to tell me what they want to happen, if they have any ideas, and you people have to answer my poll on my profile. **

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